Little Willie
by mad margaret
Summary: Part 1 of the (6 part) Willie Loomis World Series. It has been rewritten and expanded from the original 4 chapters to 9 chapters. It is the story of a poor kid from Brooklyn, whose life is unhampered by good luck or good judgment.
1. Prologue

_**WARNING:** This story contains several scenes of a sexual nature which, although not explicit, some readers may find disturbing. One scene has been deleted on this forum. The unedited version appears at Archive of Our Own and at LiveJournal_

_**A/N:** This is Part 1 of the (6 part) Willie Loomis Series. It has been rewritten and expanded from the original 4 chapters to 9 chapters. It is the story of a poor kid from Brooklyn, whose life is unhampered by good luck or good judgment. _

_Subsequent titles are Globetrotters, The Maine Event, Changes, This Old House, and Interlude, in that order. I'm probably going to rewrite some of them also. Just saying. _

_The series (with pictures) also appears on my LiveJournal page under the name Lizzie_Bathory. I can't publish the url, but if you go there, search for Willie Loomis and it will come up._

_The time period is shifted from the original series. This first story begins in 1956, because that's what I know. _

_Of course, I do not own Dark Shadows or any otherwise copyrighted material contained herein._

_As always, your reviews and comments are welcome and deeply appreciated._

* * *

**December 25, 1956**

Willie Loomis was born in the late afternoon to a nineteen-year-old unemployed telephone operator. The father of her baby was a used car salesman in his thirties. He did not offer to marry the girl. In fact, he denied paternity and questioned her faithfulness. Truth be told, the man already had a wife and several children.

Lydia continued to work as long as she could. She bought herself a wedding ring and wore a tight girdle, but eventually her misfortune became too obvious, and her employment with the phone company was abruptly terminated.

Both of her parents were long gone, and Uncle Bill and Aunt Blanche, who raised the girl, lived in Seattle. They had warned her about moving all the way across the country by herself last year, but she had always been headstrong and often lacking in good judgment. Nonetheless, the elderly couple sent as much as they could afford to help out until she was back on her feet.

The hospital was extremely short staffed because of the holiday, so Lydia lay neglected in the indigent ward, enduring hours of horrible, painful contractions. Her water broke a while back and she lay in the amniotic fluid until a nurse finally checked on her. The girl was covered in sweat and fully dilated, so they gassed her up, knocked her out and delivered her infant son.

Two days later, Lydia had still not seen her baby. When she demanded to know what was wrong the nurse replied that nothing was amiss, this was hospital policy. Later she was visited by a social worker and discovered that all assumed that she would be giving up her child for adoption. Lydia tore up the form and yelled at the poor woman, threatening to pitch a bedpan at her head.

Late that night, Lydia quietly changed into her street clothes, gathered her coat and pocketbook and tiptoed down the hall to the nursery. She scoured the name cards posted above each of the bassinets until she found the one labeled LOOMIS: MALE. 5 LBS, 6 OZ. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she gazed at her beautiful boy.

"They think I'm going to give you to some stranger, but we both know that's not going to happen," she whispered. "No one is ever going to take you away from me."

She gently lifted the sleeping newborn and tucked him into her coat, buttoning it around the two of them. Then she walked out the hospital and took the subway home.

The baby's bassinet was now a dresser drawer, pulled out and lined with a soft blanket. The young mother tucked him in and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, Little Billy." The infant stared back at her, quiet and alert. "You haven't made a sound. I hope you're alright."

Lydia left him to sleep as she cleaned herself up in the bathroom. The doctor had given her something called an episiotomy after the birth. Now the stitches had pulled during her journey home and she was bleeding heavily.

An hour later, just as the exhausted new mother crawled into bed, Baby Bill assured her that his vocal chords were in perfect working order. She dragged herself into the kitchen and prepared to heat a bottle of formula.

Within a month, Lydia was able to return to the workforce. She found a job at Coleman's Department Store on the avenue, where she was assigned to work at the glove counter, and paid a neighbor lady to watch her child. Mrs. Benson had three daughters, two of whom were preschool.

* * *

**January 1961**

The Benson girls fussed over their little charge, inviting him to tea parties and to play with Barbie and Ken. But as the years passed, Bill found himself without companionship as the daughters grew old enough to attend school. Spoiled by all the attention lavished on him before, the boy was quickly becoming a rambunctious four-year-old hellion.

He jumped on the furniture and ran over tables with Barbie's red convertible which, apparently, Ken had taken for a joy ride. He drew a mustache on Ken with a magic marker. Then he drew one on Barbie and proceeded to scribble on the Dream House furniture and tea cups.

One day when the little boy was wrestling with a big stuffed teddy bear, he threw it across the living room and knocked over a lamp, breaking it. That evening, Mrs. Benson told his mother she couldn't care for William anymore, even when the girl offered her more money.

Lydia stopped at the Discount Liquor Mart on the way home and picked up a bottle of wine to calm her nerves that night while she considered her options. She would have to call in sick the next day and try to find another babysitter. Just for a little while, until she could get him into kindergarten. If he wasn't so small for his age, she would have tried to sneak him in a year early.

Three days later, the woman found a nursery school that accepted early admissions, but it was only for half days. However, by then it didn't matter. Another shop girl informed her manager that Lydia was not ill but off traipsing around with her illegitimate child and, once again, the young mother was promptly fired.

Lydia took Little Bill to a tap room for lunch. They sat in a booth where the boy had a grilled wiener and Coke, and his mom drank two vodka martinis. She tried to hide her tears when the bartender delivered their order.

The proprietor looked sympathetically at the despondent duo. "We don't get many unescorted women in here," he commented. "Not ladies, anyway, and they usually don't bring their kids."

Lydia looked up with red rimmed eyes. "Do we have to leave?"

"No, I guess not. It looks like you're having a tough day." He looked at the boy. "Well, you're a handsome little fella. What's your name?"

"I'm not little, I'm big. Big Bill."

"How do you do, I'm Big Bob." The two shook hands.

"This is my mommy; her name is Lyddie. She lost her job today, and now she's gonna get drunk."

"Bill!" Lydia reprimanded her outspoken son, but he continued.

"Could she get a job here and work for you? She's a good worker, and she's very pretty."

"Billy, please stop."

"That's okay," Bob laughed as he tousled the boy's blond hair. "You're a little hustler, aren't you?"

"You could use someone prettier than you to serve them drinks," an old man sitting at the bar called out. "Good for business."

"Charlie, you give me all the business I need!" Bob replied and returned to Lydia. "Well, have you ever waited tables?"

"She's smart, too," the child chimed in.

"William Loomis, that's enough. Thank you, sir—"

"Bob."

"Bob. I appreciate the offer, but I've got no one to watch my boy."

"Well, if you work nights, you can bring him here with you. I live upstairs with my wife, so the kid can watch TV and sleep on the sofa."

"I know how to do that, 'cause I sleep on the sofa at home," Bill once more interjected. "And I'll be very good and not break anythin'."

"I should hope not," Lydia shot him a reproachful look. "Don't you think, Bob, that you should check with your wife first?"

"No, it's probably better if we surprise her." The bartender noticed the child's threadbare jacket. "When you get paid, you might want to get this guy a warm coat, or else we'll be calling him Chilly Willy."

After that, everybody called the boy Willie, except for his mom. To her he would always be Big Bill.


	2. Summer in the City

**May 1967**

Ten-year-old Willie Loomis entered the lobby of his apartment building. It was stuffy and hot as he stopped to pull out the mailbox key on a string around his neck and retrieve the latest collection of bills. He stuffed them into his 5th grade book bag and hauled it home, three flights up. The other key on the string unlocked the front door.

Willie grunted in disapproval to find his mother asleep on the sofa in the stifling, dark room. She was supposed to be at work. He slammed the front door and dropped his bag with a thud, but the noise garnered no response. The boy pulled up the blinds, pushed open the window as far as it would go and turned on the table top fan. That was better.

The room was strewn with discarded clothes, but Willie didn't want to be bothered with that just then. On Saturday he would stuff them in his pillow case and head over to the Laundromat; then he would pick up some groceries at the corner variety store. That would get them by until Lydia was up to walking him all the way to the supermarket with their folding shopping cart.

"Wake up, Lyddie." He nudged his mom, causing the inch-long ash to fall from her dead cigarette. He gently pried it from her fingers as Lydia mumbled incoherently in her sleep. _One a' these days_, the child thought as he carried her ashtray and empty glass into the kitchen to keep company with the other dirty dishes in the sink.

Looking for food, Willie rummaged through the refrigerator. He smelled the milk and poured it down the sink. There was no bread to be found, nor a clean spoon, but no matter. Willie took a butter knife and the jar of peanut butter to the window and waited.

No one would be out to play for awhile. The other kids were watching afternoon cartoons, eating popsicles, doing homework. Now, if Willie had a magic genie in a bottle, the first thing he would wish for was a television set. Sometimes he could go to Denny's house to watch TV, but Mrs. Malone didn't like him all that much.

Denny's family was rich because his dad was a cop. They lived on the next block in a row house with a front porch, three bedrooms and a cleaning lady who came in once a week. Mrs. Malone had been in a debilitating car accident with a truck and with the substantial settlement money, the family had bought themselves a console color television with a stereo record player on top. But, the best part of all, their portable black and white set (which had a special UHF antenna) was reassigned to the master bedroom, enabling Denny and his friend to sit on the bed and watch _Bullwinkle _and _Astro Boy_ while Mrs. Malone enjoyed her afternoon soaps in peace.

Willie climbed out the window and sat on the fire escape with his snack and an old comic book. School was almost out, so he didn't see the point in doing homework. Much more interesting was Batman and Robin kicking the Riddler's ass. Sometimes Willie would pretend that he was Robin.

P.S. 113, at this time of year, was stifling in more ways than one. Willie usually sat in the back row, behind the biggest kid available. He traditionally slept through his first two classes, would stare out the window for while, then draw superhero caricatures and captions in his copybooks until lunchtime. Occasionally his day would be interrupted by a teacher.

"Willie Loomis, can you explain the role of serfs in the Feudal system of the Middle Ages?"

The boy's head popped out to the side of the oversized Ant'ny Pellegrino. _Did she say Smurfs? Or maybe surfs, like a surfboard. What the hell, take a guess. _

"I—dunno. They were like farmers?" Miss Kowalski called on another student, and Willie returned to his doodles.

At lunchtime the young man loaded his tray to capacity. It was often his only meal of the day, so it was important to take advantage of the fine generosity of the City of New York. He had been issued a meal voucher card in first grade after somebody caught him eating out of the trash can behind the recess yard. He had to work pretty fast to ingest all that food in the time allotted but, of necessity, it was a skill swiftly mastered. Willie learned early on that hoarding food by stuffing it in his pockets was not such a good idea. Also, he also didn't want Lyddie to find out because she had refused to sign the permission slip, saying they were not bums and didn't have to beg anyone for a handout. Willie was a resourceful boy, however, and carefully copied her signature to the paper.

The cafeteria carb-fest usually prepared the boy for another nap after recess, which helped pass the time until three o'clock.

He glanced inside to the dark room where Lydia was still passed out, and thought about lifting a quarter from her wallet. That would buy two new comic books, or one and a package of cupcakes for dinner, or one and two candy bars. A guy has to eat, doesn't he? And that sounded like a fine evening's entertainment.

Just then the Donofrio brothers, Lou, Anthony and Paulie, showed up at the vacant lot on the corner with a ball and stick. They were followed by Joey Jellydonuts (whose real name was Francis but don't call him that). Next, David and Leah Kratz appeared.

Time to go. Quick as a blink, the peanut butter was sealed up (to keep out the roaches), the knife went in the sink and the quarter slipped into his pocket. Willie downed a glass of tap water and refilled the glass to set beside his mom.

"Lyddie," he pushed her shoulder. "Wake up. " She opened her eyes, smiled vaguely at him and stroked his wayward hair into place. "Big Bill, hi. You need a haircut."

"Hey, Toots."

She raised her head slightly and squinted. "What time is it?"

"The Duke of Maharajah was here for tea, but you missed it _again_." Willie pushed her into a sitting position. "C'mon now, ya gotta go to work; ya know you do. Drink this." He pushed the glass of water at her. "I'm goin' out to play."

"Okay, baby. Stop by later and get somethin' to eat."

"Maybe. Now, g'on."

He was out the door and thumped down the steps in time to the music in his head. Something from a record album he heard at Denny's house.

_When Dukes and Maharajas spend the time of day with me  
I say me special word and then they ask me out to tea! _(1)

**July 1967**

Summer should be a fun, exciting time, but mostly it was just boring. Not school boring, but there was nothing to do.

When the other kids were around, Willie could play with them. Sure, when they weren't at camp, or at the beach, or amusement parks, or the zoo, or visiting their stupid grandma's farm, or some other family activity crap.

There weren't many children in the apartment building where he and Lydia lived, mostly old people, but the neighboring row houses were swarming with kids; and they were all ages, so it never occurred to Willie how short he was for his age, and undernourished.

They would sit on Joey's porch, read comic books and play with little green plastic soldiers, while his older sister Kathleen and her girlfriends listened to 45s stacked on the fat spindle of a record player that opened like a little suitcase. With hairbrush microphones, they sang along to the Beatles and all the Motown groups, The Monkees, Herman's Hermits, Dusty Springfield and Petula Clark. The boys were instructed, in no uncertain terms, to not join in.

So Willie and Joey snuck into Kathleen's bedroom. There were gigantic posters of John, Paul, George and Ringo on her wall and an 8x10 glossy of the Mop Tops on her dresser.

"P-U, these guys stink!" Willie and Joey laughed, and sprayed each face with Kathleen's aerosol deodorant can, permanently staining the photo. Joey got in trouble and Willie wasn't allowed in their house any more.

Other pastimes included throwing a ball against the wall in the vacant lot while Mr. Hoffstetter yelled at them from his porch. Then they would head over to the playground. On the way, smelly vomit trees (2) shed all kinds of crap and their roots distorted the sidewalks into entertaining obstacle courses.

The playground was surrounded by a pointy black wrought-iron fence meant, Willie figured, to keep teenagers out at night. Within the gates were swings, a slide, a sandbox and a big water sprinkler to run under. Sometimes, when the ice cream truck came by, Willie had a nickel or a dime in his pocket.

One day the child was sitting on the front stoop feeding stale bread crumbs to a swarm of ants and thinking about using his magic marker to write his name on the cinder block foundation of the building. He had already autographed the hallway.

A distant roll of thunder caused Willie to look up and observe gray storm clouds wandering lazily across the sky. Then he saw Mrs. Kratz, looking all prim and proper with little white gloves and a hat, David, Leah and Leah's friend, Iris. The girls swished the skirts of their seersucker dresses as they paraded to the trolley stop.

"Hey, Mom," whined David, "Can Willie come too? Please, Mom? I don't want to go with all girls to see a baby cartoon!"

Mrs. Kratz sighed, not seeing any way out, as an excited David ran over to his scruffy friend. "If you have fifty cents, and your mom says it's okay, you can come with us to the movies!"

Without replying, Willie bolted through the apartment complex door and up the stairs. Lydia was in the shower but her purse sat on the coffee table. "I need money!" he yelled rummaging through her bag for change. He didn't wait to find out if she heard him. "Goin' out, be back later!" and he was out the door.

Willie felt like he was part of a regular family, riding on a trolley down the avenue to Loews Theatre. They stopped at the 5&10 on the way, and everyone was treated to grilled cheese sandwiches at the soda fountain. Mrs. Kratz clucked disapprovingly at the dirty little boy, who shoveled his food like a ravenous mongrel, then smiled at the other three children, who knew good table manners.

The little group rushed into the theatre just as the downpour began. Inside was an art-deco palace that smelled of air conditioning and melted butter popcorn. Willie couldn't tell them that this was his first time in a movie theatre. The boy's leg bounced nervously and his heart pounded as the lights dimmed.

First on the afternoon's program was a Road Runner cartoon. "These are always the same. Look, ACME dynamite," David whispered. Willie didn't care, staring wide-eyed at the enormous screen. Next was a double feature of rereleases, so he could catch up on his entire movie-going life in one shot.

_Peter Pan_ was a story about a boy who could fly; he knew Indians and mermaids and fought pirates. This wasn't a baby cartoon; it was probably the best story ever. The second film wasn't as captivating. It was made by the same company but had real actors in it—about an old fashioned orphan girl named Pollyanna who always played a happy game no matter what awful things happened to her. Willie's eyes were glued to the screen but in his mind, he was navigating a flying, golden pirate ship.

His mother was awake when Willie got home. She sat weeping on the sofa with a cigarette and what was obviously the latest of several drinks. "You had me worried," she mumbled. Her son took a flying leap and landed next to her.

"I went to the _movies_ with David and Leah and Iris and Mrs. Kratz." Then he felt guilty when she sniffed. "I hadda take fifty cents outta your wallet. I'm sorry." Lydia pulled him to her and leaned her head on the child's shoulder.

"Did you have a good time?" She managed to say before breaking down again. He hugged her back but didn't understand why his mom was so upset. Why should Lyddie care? After all, she never took him to the movies.

After recovering somewhat, she continued, "Did you thank Mrs. Kratz?"

"Yeah, three times, so maybe she'll take me again." There was a pause while Lydia took a deep, halting breath.

_Shit_, another crying jag. His mother, to Willie's experience, had three states of conscious being: jabbering happily with no particular train of thought, railing with equal energy against the injustices of their lives, or sobbing with remorse at what a bad mother she was. Of course, the fourth state was passed out, but that didn't count.

And tonight was one of her weepy moods. "Someday, we'll—"

"You bet," Willie interrupted, taking the cigarette from her hand. "Don't burn yerself. So, how 'bout some dinner?"

He took Lydia's glass into the kitchen, hoping she might not then think to refill it, and pulled from the freezer his favorite TV dinner: fried chicken, mashed potatoes and peas. "What do ya want?" He called to her.

"I'll have a nibble of yours," she replied, as usual, though she never did. Lydia drank her dinner.

_Not fair_, Willie thought as he preheated the oven. _Having a TV dinner without a TV._ Then he noticed a quart of milk next to the vodka on the counter. It was quite warm.

"Lyddie, did you buy milk today?" he yelled to the next room.

"I did, just for you, sweetie!" was the reply. No sense telling her she had forgotten to put it away. He shoved it in the fridge. Maybe it wasn't bad yet.

Willie wanted to go out after dinner, but it was Lydia's night off, and he didn't want to leave her alone to continue her binge. So he brushed her hair and made tea. They played cards together: poker and gin rummy and go fish. She only had one more drink—Novocain for the brain, as she would say—and seemed somewhat more cheerful, so he told her the stories of both movies he saw.

Then he went on to give her detailed plotlines from his favorite TV shows. They involved a talking car, a talking horse, a lady genie and a witch (both of whom had evil brunette counterparts), poor people living in a mansion and crazy people stuck on an island. He didn't mention the ones about just plain families with caring, wise fathers and caring mothers who never let on just how wise they were. There were also shows about widows or bachelors who had somehow amassed a hoard of adorable children. Why was it okay for them?

Depending of which show he was watching, Willie would pretend one of the actors was his dad.

Walt Disney's _Mary Poppins_

The Ginkgo Biloba tree's ripe berries have a putrid smell, much like vomit. Source: Wikipedia


	3. The Capri Garden Lounge

_please see Chapter 1 for A/N_

_Chapter 3: The Capri Garden Lounge_

* * *

Willie knew lots of kids, but he didn't exactly have a best friend. Their moms looked at the boy sideways and would whisper to each other. The dads didn't look at him at all. When you're little, you just accept this kind of stuff as normal, but sometimes kids would repeat to him the conversations they heard at the dinner table, especially the Brindisi sisters, Karen and Donna.

"Where's your _dad_, Willie?" they asked every chance they got. "What's his name?"

"William H. Loomis," he replied quickly. That was the name of his great Uncle Bill. "He died in the war."

"_What_ war?" Donna looked incredulous. Karen chimed in, "I thought you said he was a train engineer."

"No, he was an airplane pilot," joked David from the sidelines. "Or was it an Indian chief?" Willie turned red. He couldn't hit the twins because they were girls. David was another matter.

The child used to ask about his father, but Lydia would come up with another bullshit story, never consistent with the one before. Once she snapped, "Tell those jerks you were a virgin birth, just like Jesus." Willie didn't ask anymore.

"Well, _my_ mom said…"

But Willie held up his hand to abort Donna's next accusation. He motioned her towards him with an air of confidentiality, causing the girls in lean in anxiously for what would undoubtedly be juicy gossip.

Willie mused briefly as he looked deep into their eyes and spoke with quiet sincerity. "Your mommy is a lyin' sack of shit, and you two need to FUCK OFF and mind your own business!"

Karen burst into tears with an explosion that spewed snot from her nose. Donna eyes and mouth went round with a look that said, "I'm telling!" She grabbed Karen and stomped off.

David fell down laughing so hard that Leah and Iris came over to see what was so funny. The others followed, and soon the kids were huddled in a corner of the vacant lot until it got dark, and moms started calling them to come in. Willie told them all the curse words he knew and what they meant—and a few dirty jokes he had heard in the bar.

* * *

Willie sat alone in the corner booth. Although it was the middle of the day, it was hard to read in the tap room where Lydia worked as a waitress. This is where the banished boy spent most of his time now that nobody was allowed to play with him. Bob and his wife had gotten a divorce, so he wasn't invited upstairs anymore.

The Capri Garden Lounge was cool and dark and smelled like stale beer. There was no garden that Willie could discern. The boy ate delicious greasy hamburgers and drank Coke, spun on the bar stool next to Charlie and watched ballgames on TV. He drank Charlie's beer when the old man left to take a piss, or sometimes right in front of him. Nobody cared; in fact, the patrons all laughed at his drunkard impersonations.

Willie flirted with his girlfriends, Mandy and Vanessa, pretty ladies who wore tight dresses and lots of makeup. They thought he was cute. They also thought he was a little boy, but he was 10 ½ now, and he knew what they were. Charlie had told him all about it, as he had the other facts of life, since the kid didn't have an old man to give him guidance.

Charlie was a gray-haired guy who sat at the bar all day. He had missing teeth and a droopy eye and didn't always smell so good, but Lydia said you mustn't judge people; maybe he had a hard life. So, when Willie would think about how much his life stunk, he would look over at Charlie and go talk to him.

During these visits, the boy was regaled with tales of the Great D, when you ate gravy bread for dinner, or WWII and travels to Italy and France and the South Pacific. He wasn't sure if Charlie really went to all those places, but he told great stories that usually involved marching and drinking and whores. Charlie knew where to get the best whores.

"That's what _you _need to do," Charlie said to him, "travel the world. Live it up while you're young. Can't nobody take your memories away—goddam son of a bitch." He slid off his chair and stumbled towards the men's room. As he passed Lydia, he chuckled, "Hey, toots" She smiled back and patted his arm.

When young Willie wasn't watching a game, he swept the floor and washed glasses. Any nickels or dimes he acquired from these labors went toward comic books.

One day he took himself to the public library to find the book of _Peter Pan_ by J.M. Barrie. The child wasn't permitted to check it out because he didn't have a library card, so he stuffed it in his pants and left with what the librarian thought was an awkward gait. Running back to the bar, Willie jumped into the back booth and dove into Chapter One: _Peter Breaks Through_, squinting by the light of a glass-covered tea candle that adorned his table.

_Shit_, _this book is long_. He didn't understand some of the big words and run-on sentences, but he plowed through. Peter was a fearless leader. Mr. Darling was a dick who said weird things like _mea culpa_. Willie planned to return it when finished, but in the end, he stuffed in under the sofa cushion at home.

* * *

A new line of comic books had turned up at his corner store, based on historical accounts and literary classics. One day, instead of Spiderman, Willie spent his evening at the Capri reading about _Treasure Island_ and the American Revolution. _Ya know_, the boy thought, _if they taught stuff in school with comic books, it'd be a lot easier to get_.

Willie kissed his mom goodnight and left the bar around 10 o'clock, which was his custom, to walk home alone. No pajamas tonight, it was way too hot; he could sleep in his underwear. The child dutifully washed his face with plain water and proceeded to brush his teeth, but the toothpaste tube was squeezed flat. When sucking on the nozzle failed to produce results, Willie decided to use peanut butter instead, as it tasted better and was of a similar consistency.

He then laid his sheet and pillow on the sofa, turned on the table fan and turned off all the lights but one. Willie reread his new comic books, and fell asleep as he imagined himself going off to sea with Long John Silver to hunt for pirate treasure, except he wouldn't be afraid of the peg leg. They'd be best friends—partners in crime.


	4. The Treasure Chest

At last, Denny came home! He had been visiting his grandparents almost all summer, and Willie really missed him. Plus, his buddy didn't know about the big scandal and wasn't forbidden to play with him. Not yet, anyway.

So, while Lydia worked at the bar, he and Denny went to the playground or sat in his parents' room watching TV. Willie was careful not to repeat any stories from the lounge; he was as polite as possible to Mr. and Mrs. Malone and always made a fuss over their dog.

Things went pretty well until one night. Sometimes your whole life can change in one night, based on one bad decision. If only you could go back later and tell yourself: _Stop; think. That's not what you want to happen. _

It was Friday night, when the boys traditionally watched Hogan's Heroes with Denny's collection of G.I. Joes sprawled across the bed. During the commercials the dolls would attack each other or sometimes join forces to battle Nazis and pirates.

"Hey," said Denny. "You wanna snack?"

"Sure."

"Okay; I'm goin' to the john first. Call me if the show comes back on." And he was gone.

Willie watched the commercial for a little while but it was for floors with waxy yellow buildup. The next one was for face cream. Champ, the golden retriever, pawed at the door, and Willie got up to let him in.

He distractedly ran his fingers along the night table, and moved on to the dresser. In the middle was a pretty velvet box. He peeked under the lid but then flung it open. Heirloom jewelry and costume pieces like he had never seen before glittered and sparkled before his eyes. He dug his hand in and scooped up a necklace holding to the light.

The child's mind flooded with thoughts. This was like a real treasure chest. Come on, nobody needs all this stuff; they wouldn't miss just one thing if he took it. He could give it to Lydia. He could sell it and be rich—dirty, stinking rich. He would—

Willie was fingering a brooch of multi-colored jewels and was about to slip it in his pocket when the bedroom door swung open as Mrs. Powell, the cleaning lady, let the dog in. She had her purse and hat in hand, ready to leave for the day. The boy slammed the lid down, hoping Mrs. Powell might look the other way. After all, Willie played with her son, Franklin, even though he was colored.

But Mrs. Powell did not look the other way. She was across the room in a flash and grabbed the child painfully by the arm.

"You little shanty Irish bastard," she hissed in his face. "Did you think you could steal that and they would blame it on me?" Willie shook his head but Mrs. Powell took no notice. She dragged him into the hall and down the stairs to the living room where Mr. and Mrs. Malone were enjoying _Felony Squad_ on their console television.

Denny stood there clutching a Charles Chips can of pretzels, his jaw dropped, as his mother ranted and yelled. Denny's father then marched the little thief home, but Lydia, of course, was not there. Willie was embarrassed as Mr. Malone, without comment, took note of the clutter and filth, dirty dishes crawling with bugs in the sink, empty booze bottles on the coffee table. The child explained quietly that his mom was at work and wouldn't be home until 2:30 in the morning, so maybe he shouldn't wait. He didn't.

Mr. Malone returned the next day, wearing his policeman's uniform and accompanied by a woman in a business suit, carrying a blue binder. Willie woke his mom, helped her into a threadbare robe and brought her into the living room. Then the child was sent away. He listened at the bedroom door but couldn't hear much.

Willie peeked through the door crack as soon as he heard the strangers leave. Lydia sat stone faced on the sofa. He quietly approached, searching her face for a clue as to what happened. "Are ya very mad at me?" he asked softly.

"Not too much," she answered, brushing the hair away from his eyes yet again. She smiled sadly. "And don't you be mad at me." His mom pulled the boy down next to her and squeezed tight.

The next couple of days were weird. Willie couldn't find anything. Lydia said she had been cleaning, and since her son slept on the living room sofa, his stuff got moved around. This was not unusual; Lydia sometimes went on cleaning sprees after months of household neglect, but the kid would have felt better if he knew where his comic books and pajamas were.

There was an uneasy feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * *

**August 1967**

"Road trip," Lydia announced suddenly. "Comb your hair; let's go."

"Where we goin'?"

"To see that lady who was here the other week."

That didn't sound like much fun, but getting there was great because they got to ride the trolley. As they were descending the steps to a connecting subway, Lydia abruptly grabbed his arm.

"Let's eat first," she said and steered him in another direction.

Inside his first Chinese restaurant, Willie was mesmerized by shiny landscape pictures and red and gold lanterns. He watched goldfish in a small aquarium along with a little round-faced girl who was probably there all day long and happy for company.

Lydia ordered chicken chow mein, which was slimy but fun, and for dessert he got a scoop of ice cream with a fortune cookie on top.

"I dunno what this means," Willie said, holding the slip of paper out for his mother to read. _Some people get things they don't deserve. Others deserve things they don't get_.

"That's a stupid fortune," she retorted, crumbling it into the ashtray as she grabbed the check.

After the subway ride, they took a bus to the entrance of St. Jerome's Home for Boys. "You have to go to a new school now," Lydia explained matter-of-factly as she strode briskly through the tall gates and up the path. "It's no big deal." He sprinted to keep up.

"Why? Is it 'cause a' Mrs. Malone's jewelry?"

"Partly. But don't worry about that. You'll like it here."

Willie looked at the imposing façade of the towering old building. "I dunno; it's far away. I liked it where I was."

Willie and his mother were led to the admittance office by Sister Anastasia Marie. Immediately he noticed the suitcase which had once belonged to Great Aunt Blanche sitting in the corner. Then he realized—that was _his_ stuff. Lydia would be going home but he wouldn't. Just when was someone planning to tell him?

Willie's eyes glazed over and he didn't hear most of what was said. He felt like he was going to cry or throw up, but he couldn't do either one. What if word got back to Joey? Then he realized he was never going to see Joey Jellydonuts again. He strained his eyes to read a certificate on the wall: St. Jerome's Home for Indigent and Fatherless Boys. This must be some sort of reform school, and that was the same thing as being in jail. Why was Lydia sending him away when he never actually took the pin?

Suddenly, his mom gave him a quick kiss on the top of head, said "See you soon, Big Bill," and rushed from of the room.

"Lyddie—?" Willie called after her in a frightened voice. Sister Anastasia's head snapped up.

"That is not how you address your mother."

"Okay, lady."

* * *

For the next few hours, William, as he was now called, clammed up and followed directions. He was taken to a room where they shaved off his hair within an inch of its life, after which the new student continued to push phantom locks from his eyes. The sisters ransacked his suitcase, removing almost all his personal belongings except for a toothbrush, play clothes and pajamas. The boy's lip trembled as an old nun gathered his comic books and dumped them unceremoniously into the waste basket. At least the _Peter Pan_ book was not there. It was a relief to think it was safe under the sofa cushion at home.

Then Willie was led past rows of dormitories named after various apostles until they reached the last room lined with bunk beds. On his cot lay a suit, shirt, clip-on tie and dress shoes—his new, albeit hand-me-down, uniform. He was to quickly change so he could meet the principal. No need to come his hair anymore. It wasn't going anywhere.

Father Foster was tall, bald and scary. He wore long black robes to intensify this look. Other priests wore slacks, but not this guy. His office was decorated in dark mahogany and a pampered German shepherd dozed comfortably next to his leather chair. Hanging from a hook behind Father Foster's desk was a big wooden paddle, on which was etched BOARD OF EDUCATION.

Willie answered Father Foster's intimidating interrogatories with his best manners and honesty tempered with discretion. The pastor's booming baritone scared the shit out of him. No way in hell was he going to be sent to this office again.

"It says here you like to steal things. Is that true?"

"Yessir. I-I mean no, sir. I didn't— "

"There's no tolerance for that sort of behavior here. You'll learn your lesson the hard way. What is the seventh commandment?"

Willie swallowed. "I dunno," he said meekly.

"You don't know your commandments!" the priest bellowed. "What kind of a Catholic upbringing did you have?" Willie was unaware, up until now, that he was Catholic or that there were seven commandments. "Where did you go to school?"

"P.S. 113."

"Do you at least attend mass on Sunday and say your prayers every night?"

Willie was afraid to tell him the truth, but he was more afraid of what would happen if he got caught in a lie. "No, sir."

Father closed the boy's dossier. "Well, Loomis, your life is about to change."

As he lay in bed that first night at St. Jerome's, Willie stared at the moon shining through the wrought iron scrolls at the window near his bed. They reminded him of the playground. They weren't bars, but still, you couldn't get past them, could you? He thought about Lydia. Was she okay? Who would take care of her now? Who would put out her cigarettes? He wondered darkly if now it was time to start playing the Happy Game. It was almost dawn before he fell asleep.

* * *

Willie was jarred awake by a clanging bell in the corridor. If took him a minute to focus his eyes and remember where he was. His dormitory mates were ransacking his drawer, looking for contraband. One tough guy discovered the boy watching them.

"There's nothing in here." He said in lieu of introduction. "So, listen up. If ya wanna get along, ya tell whoever visits you, tell 'em to bring smokes and candy bars. Marlboro, Pall Mall, Snickers. Got it?"

Willie nodded.

I'm Carlo, and these," he indicated his pals, "are Antoine and Lumpy." Lumpy thumped him on the arm. "I mean Lawrence. We're the law in this group, so you follow our orders or there's gonna be hell to pay. Got it?"

Willie nodded. The leader gave him a hard look of appraisal. "Are you a fag?"

Not completely sure what that was, Willie concluded the correct answer was no, he was not.

"Good, 'cause we kill fags."

Willie's bosses returned to their bunks to get dressed. The school year had not started so the boys wore play clothes.

That first day the new kid was pulled out after breakfast. First he saw a doctor, who found him to be below average height and weight, but of sound constitution and updated his vaccinations. At his old school, students were prevented from contracting polio via a sugar cube, but this institution had no such conveniences. When he had just about had his fill of needles, the doctor came at him again to take a blood sample.

They recorded his height as 4'3 ½" and a weight of 54 pounds, with blond hair and—the doctor peered into the boy's face, making him back away. The child's eyes were light green streaked with gold and rimmed in blue. There was no box on the chart for that combination, so the doc checked off hazel.

Willie's next stop was for an oral examination. Having never been to a dentist's office before, the boy likened it to a brightly lit torture chamber. It was determined he had nine cavities. He didn't mean to scream but that tobacco-smelling guy in the white coat approached him with yet another needle, this one of cartoonish proportions, and said, "Open wide!"

One technician was called to hold his arms, another his legs. The young patient clamped his eyes shut and took his mind to a different place. But he didn't cry.

The medical appointments took longer than anticipated and Willie missed lunch. Not that he could eat; his mouth felt like it was holding a football and he couldn't tell if he was drooling.

In the afternoon, the boy was seated in an empty classroom with Sister Joan, whom he thought would be pretty if she wore some makeup. The nun administered aptitude tests on which Willie did his best to focus, but Sister's brow knitted as she reviewed the results.

"I'm afraid, William, that although you are ten, you're performing at a fourth grade level."

_Fuck no!_, he thought. _I can't repeat fourth grade_. "But—I already finished fifth grade," he replied, careful to maintain a subservient stance.

"That was in public school. In a parochial setting, our standards are different. I'm sorry." She looked sorry, too.

"But that was just because I wasn't taught that stuff. I never learned those God questions. And the math, well I just forgot 'cause I been off all summer and…" He looked up to realize that she was actually listening so he seized the opportunity to continue. "There's a lot of stuff I do know. I can show you."

Sister Joan paused for a moment, then handed him several sheets of loose leaf paper. "Alright, William, show me."

Willie stared at the blank page for just a second and then began to scrawl at a furious pace. The first page talked about Peter Pan. The second recounted the story of Dracula, followed by Frankenstein, Treasure Island and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. He took extra care recalling the American Revolution, naming generals, battles and the tea party. Next was the French Revolution with its guillotine. He asked for more paper.

Subsequent topics included Knights of the Round Table, the Black Plague, tales by Edgar Allen Poe, and King Richard of England, who killed off his whole family and buried his nephews in the basement of a tower. In the end he was haunted by ghosts and lost his horse, resulting in defeat and death.

Finally, the pencil dropped, his arm and brain exhausted. Not a single comic book story remained in his head that didn't involve the Fantastic Four.

Sister Joan read each story with quiet amusement. "Well," she said finally. "You don't finish sentences and your penmanship is atrocious. On the other hand, almost everything is spelled correctly, and you certainly are a well-read young man." Willie smiled to himself as his leg started to bounce slightly as it did when he was anxious or excited.

"It would mean studying very hard and doing extra work to catch up. Are you prepared to do that?"

"Uh-huh. I mean, uh, yes. Sista."

"Then we'll give it a trial run. You may begin with this." She handed him a Baltimore Catechism. Let's see how many answers you can memorize before school starts, alright?"

_You got it, toots._ "Thank you, Sista." He took the book and flipped through. Not one picture or conversation.

That academic year William repeated fifth grade, but at least suffered no further humiliation than that. He also learned answers to the God questions. Eventually the pupil qualified to receive his First Holy Communion and later Confirmation. He chose Bruce for his new middle name—after Bruce Wayne. That's what Dick Grayson would have done.


	5. School Days

_Please see Chapter 1 for A/N_  
_Warning: language, some sexual content._

* * *

**September 1967**

Life at St. Jerome's was different from the old neighborhood in every way imaginable.

First off, there was breakfast—every day: Corn flakes in the summer, oatmeal in the winter, scrambled eggs on Sundays, pancakes on the good holidays when you didn't have to fast, like Easter and St. Jerome's feast day. There was fresh, cold milk at every meal. Lunch was soup in cold weather, baloney sandwiches when it was warm. And dinner: mystery stew or meat loaf with boiled potatoes and more vegetables than Willie had ever ingested heretofore. The peas, cubed carrots and corn were salty and mushy and tasted like crap, but he ate them anyway.

Being bored was not an option. There were school classes all year round, although the summer was reserved for remedial learning. In addition, there were endless chores inside and out to maintain the building and grounds. Willie wondered why they even had a janitor or a gardener.

They played football, dodge ball, basketball and ran laps. Alas, there was no television, but once a month a 16mm projector was brought in to show an old movie or instructional video about morals, sports or hygiene.

Communal showers were three times a week in cold weather, more often in summer or after exercise. This activity was supervised by Father Donahue who, coincidentally, also held Confession on Saturday afternoon.

There were too many boys to celebrate each one's birthday, but his name would be mentioned and congratulations extended during morning announcements after prayers. Then his classmates would shower him with an appropriate number of punches to the arm.

Willie's birthday happened to fall on the Feast of the Nativity so, in the excitement, if often went unacknowledged, but he was used to that. Lydia had usually forgotten it as well. Although one year he was surprised with cupcakes at the lounge with his mom, Charlie, Bob the bartender and his two favorite hookers. At school they served a big turkey dinner, and Willie pretended it was in honor of him and not Jesus.

And, of course, there were "presents." At Christmas, each boy would receive a package prepared by various churches and charitable organizations. They usually contained underwear, socks, toiletries and used paperbacks. Willie wished you could make requests, but it wouldn't do, he imagined, to ask for comic books, candy bars and smokes. One year another student received a copy of _Peter Pan_. Willie offered to trade _Great Expectations, Jane Eyre_ and _Ivanhoe _for it, but in the end the novel was confiscated for being sacrilegious.

Punishable offences were smoking, cursing, shirking one's duty, skipping mass, fighting, cheating—the list went on and it was long, but nothing unexpected. Rules were clearly stated and easy to understand.

The time of day to be most wary of was recess, which was a half-hour, twice a day. Then a whole separate set of rules kicked in. You were expected, among your peers, to break as many rules as possible during this time, especially fighting. Their other rules were: Don't get caught. Don't snitch. Don't be queer.

Willie soon made a startling discovery. Being queer to these boys meant hugging or being overly close to another boy. Apparently it was a perfectly acceptable practice for an older student to force an underclassman to do whatever he wished. In their words, _to use him for a girl, _especially if he was small or easily intimidated.

The first time his group was lined up in size order, Willie realized he was behind John Paul Flynn, making him the second shortest boy. _Holy Mother of Fuck!_ That automatically pegged him as a target. Flynn was called a fag because he was small and sang so well in choir. The lads dangled him by his knees from the classroom window until he screamed and wet his pants; then the whole class got detention because no one would snitch.

One day Willie got grabbed while he was wet mopping a corridor and pulled into an empty classroom.

There a husky sixteen-year-old slammed him against the wall and made a request which the younger student found distasteful. The big boy repeated his intention and this time let his fists do the talking, bringing the kid to his knees.

Willie reacted as he would in any situation where something was pushed into his mouth. He bit it—as hard as he dared. The big kid screamed and went down like a felled tree as Willie scrambled to his feet and flew towards the door.

"Try that again and I'll break it off and shove it down your throat," were his arrogant parting words before running for his life. Willie slipped on the wet, soapy floor and slid partway down the hall, but he kept running.

By the end of the day, rumors were rampant that in the infirmary there was a student who had a lot of explaining to do. The lad took his punishment and did not snitch on his assailant.

However, the next day, Willie was also called to the vice principal's office and asked why he had shirked his cleaning duties and gotten into a fight, as evidenced by a bright purple shiner and cut lip. The underclassman wasn't about the squeal, either. He explained that he had slipped on the wet floor and hit his face on the edge of the bucket.

Sister Mary Perpetua eyed him skeptically. "Do you know anything about what happened to Thomas McFadden?"

"I dunno who that is, Sista," he answered innocently and almost honestly.

Loomis was given a note and sent on to Father Foster's anteroom to await sentencing.

Willie sat in the outer office, short of breath, his leg shaking. He had never been hit by a grown up before, and the other students told terrifying tales of what went on behind that mahogany door. The boy almost wet his pants when Father called him into the inner sanctum.

He hesitantly approached the desk as Father Foster held out his hand for the note.

"It says here you were fighting, insubordinate and insolent to Sister Perpetua. Is this true?"

Willie panicked, not knowing how to respond. The only word he understood was _fighting_. He decided quickly that it was a trick question to see if he would lie as well by contradicting a nun. "I guess so. I mean, yes, Fadda."

"How old are you?"

"Eleven, Fadda." His voice trembled.

The principal retrieved his board of education and Willie was instructed to bend over the large desk. He received 12 whacks, only one more than the minimum for his age, but they were bruisers. Later the other boys congratulated him on how lucky he had been. Father often handed out 20 or more, and usually made the culprits lower the trousers.

Getting sent to the principal was no shame in itself, but it generated another set of expectations. You did not cry or yell and, if you were really tough, you walked away afterwards and sat down.

Willie put the injustice of that event behind him and resolved to avoid the fag tag by being tough, so he took up smoking in earnest. He fought at every opportunity, compensating for a lack of power with speed and endurance, and he joined in bullying sessions aimed at weaker counterparts when it would have looked odd not to do so.

"I'm a shanty Irish bastard, so don't fuck with me!" Then he'd pummel them until they dropped or, remembering old Charlie's advice, kick them in the nuts.

* * *

Funny, how you can be surrounded by dozens of people 24 hours a day, and still be lonely. He didn't remember feeling that way at home, and back then he was left on his own a lot.

Willie didn't really fit in with these boys; he missed his friends from the old neighborhood—and Lydia most of all. He tried writing to her a couple of times but didn't know what to say. He wanted to know how she could take care of herself without him. Would he ever be allowed to come home? Why didn't ever she write or visit like the other moms? Didn't she love him anymore? Willie would stare at the blank paper until letter-writing period was over, then throw it away.

In his nightmares, Lyddie would pass out and burn in a raging cigarette-induced fire. Maybe she didn't write because she was dead, and nobody told him. He'd feel his brain go numb when too many thoughts flooded in. _I need some Novocain to the brain_, his mom would say with a finger gun pointing to her temple.

After almost two years, Lydia started to send cards around his birthday with XOXOs and money in them. She asked him to send her a photo, but he had no idea how to do that. The only pictures ever taken were fuzzy group portraits of 325 boys that lined the corridors. Willie made a small tear in his mattress to hide the money.


	6. Teacher's Pet

_A/N: please see Chapter 1_  
_Warnings: language, sexual situations_

* * *

**October 1969**

Father Donahue was his guidance counselor, and he noted the boy's growing depression and lack of friends. Father suggested William join the choir. The singing group not only got off for practice but left the grounds frequently to perform in small concerts and shopping centers. But the student had neither an aptitude for music nor interest in learning hymns and Christmas carols. He also remembered what happened to John Paul Flynn.

Father's next idea was for him to become an altar boy. This also got you off duty roster, and came with another set of perks. He showed Willie the room where vestments were stored, and where the wine and wafers were kept. He poured a glass of wine for the boy and himself.

Willie didn't think he would like being an altar boy, but he liked drinking wine. It was sweet like grape juice and made his head fuzzy, reminding him of good times with Charlie.

"Do you think Jesus wants us to be happy?" Father asked conversationally one day.

"I dunno, Fadda."

"I do. I think when we make each other happy, it pleases Jesus."

"I guess so."

"Do you know what would make me happy, William?" The boy shook his head. "If you would tuck in your shirt properly. Here, let me show you." The priest unbuttoned Willie's pants and smoothed down his shirttails in the front and back. He was very slow and thorough.

Each time the child was called to Father D's office, he was treated to candy bars or chewing gum and several glasses of wine. Father showed him how to wrestle on the floor, and tickled him frequently. The boy noticed that his counselor would lock the door during these sessions.

When Willie drank too much, he would get drowsy and be allowed to nap on the little cot in Father's back room. The bed was eventually used for other things as well, but memories of these events were puppeteered to be muddled as necessary. _Novocain to the brain_.

As time went on, Willie was plagued with conflicting thoughts and fears, none of which he could express. Father Donahue was a grown up—and a priest. You can't disobey a priest. That's insubordination and a sin. But "their little secret" felt like a sin too—a big fat mortal sin. However, a secret it remained, because there was no one the boy could tell. No one would believe him, and he would probably get horribly punished for fabricating such lies.

Yet the priest spoke tenderly to him, tutored him in his studies, hugged him and horsed around like the wise, caring father he always dreamed of, but those hugs gave Willie the creeps. And there were other times the man made uncomfortable remarks, in front of other students or in the Confessional, which seemed to have a sharp edge or double meaning. Every Saturday in Confession the boy was absolved and told to say two _Our Fathers_ and two _Hail Marys _as his penance.

_Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.  
__Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.  
__Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. _

Willie memorized and recited the prayers, but he didn't have the vaguest idea what the words meant. He didn't think anyone else knew either, convinced that this whole religion thing had some pretty big holes in its bucket.

While he pretended nothing was wrong, Willie was secretly terrified that his group would be suspicious when Father D would constantly pull him off the recess yard or reassign his chores. Had the other boys stopped speaking to him? Was Carlo sneering in his direction? Somebody called him _priesty pet_. Maybe he was paranoid; it was hard to tell. The more he drank, the less he thought about it.

Eventually his fears were realized and Willie was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night onto the floor between bunks. Someone threw a pillowcase over him and held the boy down as two others punched and kicked him repeatedly, anywhere it would not show. He knew better than to yell for help. Afterwards, he heard Carlo's voice softly at his ear through the pillowcase. "Someday, he'll find someone younger and smaller, and he'll dump _you_."

**May 1972**

Willie spent a lot more time in chapel, especially at night when he couldn't sleep, staring blankly at the Stations of the Cross or mass responses in a prayer book—_Mea culpa, mea culpa_. That was also in the _Peter Pan_ book, and now he knew what it meant.

Willie glared at the crucifix hanging over the altar. "That's what you are, too—a big stupid fuckin' fairy tale!" The boy held his breath, waiting to be struck dead. There was a heavy silence except for the hum of dim overhead lights

"And I don't give a shit if you're happy!" He flipped Jesus the bird and launched the prayer book at a statue of St. Joseph who smiled benignly at him. No, it was St. Jerome. It said so on the base of the pedestal. _Patron Saint of scholars, students and abandoned children. _He waited again fordivine retribution.

He stared at the rows of votive candles along the wall and mused briefly on what it would be like to light them all and knock the thing over, setting the whole place on fire. Burn this shithole to the ground. Instead, the child grabbed another book and, dropping to his knees, beat it repeatedly on the seat of the front pew. The banging sound echoed through the cavernous chapel.

Willie was pulled to his feet. His tear stained face looked up to see a fat lady he didn't recognize. She had short hair and was wearing a bathrobe.

"Whoa, now, what's the matter? Are you trying to wake up the whole school?"

It was Sister Gail but she wasn't wearing her habit. Hysterically, Willie threw a punch in her direction but the nun expertly dodged it and pulled the boy into a bear hug.

"That's enough. Calm down."

He struggled fiercely but she was too big and strong and would not let go. Finally he succumbed and hugged her back, sobbing uncontrollably.

"You're going to be alright." The nun held him fast for several minutes, then lifted his chin to look at her. "Let's pull ourselves together, pick up these prayer books and go back to bed. Okay, bucko?"

"Yes, Sista."

* * *

After that, Willie wasn't called to the priest's office anymore and, a short time later, Father Donohue was transferred to a parish in another city. He shook Willie's hand, promising to write and pray for him. Both knew that wasn't going to happen but the child didn't say anything.

His next guidance counselor was Sister Gail, and they had a rather different rapport. Boisterous and chubby, with a ruddy-faced smile, she liked to punch him affectionately on the arm. If they were alone, he punched her back. The night in the chapel was never mentioned.

Willie sat on the other side of Sister's desk during his annual review. The nun scanned his file while he tried to peek at the upside-down writing.

"Okay, Mr. Loomis, you're fifteen years old now. Pretty soon we're going to lose jurisdiction over you. That means you'll move to a juvenile detention facility, return home or go into foster care." Willie stared at the pattern of carpet fibers. "So, what are you thinking?"

His head jerked up. He didn't know he had a say in the matter. "I can go home?"

"Do you want to?" She read from the file: "Your home situation has been re-evaluated and found to be suitable," and looked up to meet his eyes. "Now I don't know, maybe you're mad at her for sending you here, but you need to know, you mom didn't have a choice. She had to get her act together."

The boy nodded. He knew it wasn't Lyddie's fault. It was that policeman, Mr. Malone.

"Now would be a good time to start re-establishing a relationship with your mom." His heart skipped a beat. "She's agreed to let you come for a visit—next weekend, if you're okay with that."

Willie stood, pushing his chair back. "I'll go pack."

"Whoa, bucko," cautioned Sister Gail, "take it easy. A lot has happened in five years. And there needs to be a court order before you can move back permanently. One step at a time."

"Yes, Sista. I'll go pack."


	7. Homecoming

_A/N: please see Chapter 1_

* * *

It was late afternoon when Willie stood outside his old apartment building, suitcase in hand, where the van had dropped him off. He glanced briefly up and down the street in search of a familiar face. No longer in possession of a key, he pushed the button next to his old mailbox and waited to be buzzed in.

Lydia looked radiant. Her eyes smiled brightly, her hair was a honey blonde and cut in a bouncy flip. She wore a flowered dress and had two rings on one finger.

"Big Bill!" She put his suitcase aside and gave him a hug, which startled him, so he did not return the gesture. "You really are big! Look how much you've grown."

"Ya look diff'rent . . . pretty." She kissed his cheek and guided him to the sofa. Willie didn't know why he felt so awkward, but nothing looked the same. The furniture had changed. The wallpaper. His mother. Instead of cigarettes, she smelled like flowery perfume.

"What happened to the couch?"

"We had to throw that out, honey."

_You threw out my bed, my Peter Pan and—who's we?_

"So much has happened. I met a nice man—at an AA meeting. Do you know what that is?" Willie nodded. It was an automobile club.

"His name is Richard, and I know you're going to be such good friends." She took his hands in hers. "He and I got married two years ago. We've been living here just till he got his business up and running, but now," she beamed with happiness. "He just bought a house! After all, we're going to need a lot more room . . ."

From the bedroom came the sound of a baby crying. Lydia led her confused son to the next room where a bassinet stood in the corner.

"This is your brother, Richard Jr. Isn't he beautiful?"

_I think I'll call him Little Dick. _

She picked up Little Dick and patted his back. "Would you like to hold him?" The boy backed away, shaking his head—_no way in hell_. Lydia sat in the rocker as Willie stood across the room, his shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets. He stared at his mother and her chubby, flaxen-haired baby. "Why don't you relax, honey? Make yourself at home. I know, you can watch television." He didn't respond. "Bill, aren't you happy? We have a TV set now. And after supper you can tell us all about school."

"Okay," he answered quietly. _Yeah, I'll tell ya all about school._

Willie left the bedroom and made a beeline for the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets. That was where Lydia stashed bottles, but they were long gone, replaced by Rice a Roni and Duncan Hines cake mix. _Shit,_ he really wanted a drink.

"Lyddie, I'm goin' for a walk, okay?"

"Well, alright, but don't go too far. Richard gets home at 5:30, so we'll have supper at six." She appeared at the doorway, baby on board. "And honey? How about if you call me _Mom_ from now on? Now that we're a real family."

Willie could think of no reply for this and so he left. He ran for a few blocks, not wanting to meet up with anyone he knew. He headed toward the Capri Garden Lounge.

"If it isn't Chilly Willie!" called Bob, the bartender. The boy gratefully breathed in the familiar surroundings. "How's it goin', big guy? You know your mom doesn't work here anymore."

"I know. I just wanted to say hi." Willie sat on his usual stool.

"I'll give you a Coke, but then you gotta hit the road. Not allowed to have minors sittin' at the bar by themselves."

Willie looked at the empty stool next to him as Bob tapped out a cold soda.

"Charlie died in March. Fell right off that stool. Dead before he hit the floor. Boy, the place hasn't been the same without him. I remember you two sittin' there together watchin' the Dodgers." There was a moment of silence for Charlie as Willie sipped his Coke. "Hey, I got some chili in the back. Want some?"

"Sure. I got money."

"Well, it's no good in here." Bob called over his shoulder as he rambled into the kitchen. In a flash, Willie hoisted himself up onto the bar and leaned over the other side. He grabbed the first available bottle, which was rye whiskey, and refilled his half empty cola glass. Quickly, he replaced the bottle and sat back down as Bob returned with a chipped, steaming bowl and almost clean spoon.

"I miss Lydia, too," the bartender continued. "You'd think she could stop in and say hey, but she wanted a clean break so I never hear word, know what I mean?"

"I sure do."

Willie shoveled in some chili, which actually tasted pretty good and spicy and, like everything Bob made, brimming with grease. The boy took a long draw on his straw, grimaced and coughed. Just then he spotted a dark figure sitting at the other end of the dimly lit bar, at what used to be hookers' row. The man wore a trench coat and a black fisherman's cap. He must have been watching the whole time. Their eyes locked. He flashed Willie a shit-eating grin and called for the bartender. The boy held his breath.

"Tell me, Bob," The mysterious stranger said in a lilting Irish brogue, "Might I try a bit of that chili as well? It smells delightful."

When Bob returned to the kitchen, the man picked up his drink and moved to Charlie's old stool.

"How do you do, m'lad," his eyes twinkled at Willie, "my name's Jason Patrick McGuire. And who might ye be?"

"Captain James Hook," the kid rudely replied, noisily slurping the remainder of his drink.

Mr. McGuire removed the glass from the child's hand and placed it on the bar in a parental gesture. "You'll want to be runnin' along home now, son, before your poor mother gets worried." His tone sounded friendly and menacing at the same time.

Willie looked at the strange man with uncertainty. "Okay, mister." He slid off the stool and lost his balance. Jason's hand shot out to catch the kid. "Steady there, mate."

The boy trod careful, premeditated steps to the door. "Gotta go!" he yelled to the kitchen.

"Say hi to your mom, kiddo!" Bob called from the back room.

McGuire went to the door and held it open. "So long, Chilly Willie," he said. "See you around."

Half a block away, Willie looked over his shoulder to see the weird guy was still watching him. He crossed the street and staggered around the corner.

Feeling quite tipsy, Willie shuffled toward the avenue, in the opposite direction of home. No way was he about to sit down to supper with Mom, Big Dick and Little Dick, but he did need to sit down. He needed to think and make a plan.

Taking up residence on a park bench, Willie instead closed his eyes and dozed. In his dream, Peter Pan explained to him that it okay to be a lost boy—how mothers were very over-rated persons:

_Long ago I thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me, so I stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed._

"Why are you crying, boy?" Wendy asked, only she had a man's voice.

Willie's eyelids fluttered, then he jumped into startled consciousness at the sight of the creepy Irishman standing over him. Sitting up, the kid swiftly wiped the moisture from his face, a little embarrassed, a little fuzzy. He shrugged at the dark haired man, who made himself comfortable on the bench beside him.

"I guess that's whatcha call a wet dream," Willie said with a smirk. Jason barked with laughter and slapped him on the back.

"So, you decided not to go home after all."

"What for? They don't want me," he snorted. "She don't need me anymore. The house is all clean and she threw out my book." Alcohol had clearly loosened the boy's tongue, and McGuire listened attentively.

"_Call me mom_. Next she'll be askin' me to call him _dad. _Well, I won't; fuck, no. The only thing I'm gonna call him is Big Dick." He continued to rail as if Jason had argued the point. "And no way am I goin' back to that stupid school neither; it's a shithole. Do you know what they do to ya there if ya hit somebody? They _hit_ you. But only if they see ya do it, and I don't get caught. Believe me, they only see what they wanna see."

The boy looked away, only vaguely aware that he was revealing way too much personal information to some guy he didn't even know. But the man lent a sympathetic ear.

"Ah, the truant officer might have somethin' to say about that."

"Uh uh, I can drop out if I wanna; I'm sixteen," the boy protested. That was a seven-month stretch of the truth, but close enough for this slimy stranger.

"Are ya now? Well, you look more like twelve."

Willie shot him a dirty look, clearly taking umbrage at that remark, especially after a day of being told how much he'd grown. Jason pulled out a package of cigarettes and offered one to the kid. They sat silently for a minute, smoking.

"Don't get me wrong, lad. Looks like yours are an asset in some lines of work. . . So then, what are your plans?"

Willie shrugged and looked up. It was twilight; stars were peeking though the park trees.

"What you need is an adventure. You should be off to seek your fortune, m'boy." Jason patted his back with sincerity.

Willie moved away, staring at the seemingly friendly man. He was old enough to be a dad, but sure didn't act like one—more likely a pervert, with those sharp blue eyes and creepy smile. Willie felt uncomfortable; he slid off the bench, thinking it might be a good time to get away.

"Now, where are you off to? I was about to invite you for a drink. One you don't have to steal."

Willie eyed him with distrust. "What for? What are ya, some kinda queer?"

Jason laughed again. "Under no circumstances! When you have somethin' I want, I'll let you know." He put his arm around Willie. "Come along, lad. My hotel is nearby."

Willie was conflicted. The boy knew this probably wasn't a good idea, but honestly didn't see the harm. It meant he didn't have to go home _and_ could get another drink. What the hell; maybe this was the adventure he had in store.

* * *

For the next few days, Willie's address was a hotel room floor. His new friend showered him with clothes, take-out food, comic books and cigarettes. He didn't like the whiskey that Jason drank and wanted something else. _But what?_

_Sixteen men on a dead man's chest_

_Yo ho ho and –_

A bottle of rum—with a pirate on the label. Willie discovered that rum tasted good in Coke or apple juice or, especially, chocolate milk.

When he decided the coast was clear, Mr. McGuire brought his young protégé to see a seedy looking man who lived in a basement apartment. He had a camera and a work table cluttered with tools and razor blades. At the end of the evening Willie was in possession of his first paper documentation: a social security card and a driver's license.

According to his new ID, he lived in Newark, New Jersey, and was three years older.

"Aw, Jason, nobody's gonna believe I'm 18 years old."

"Sure an' they will. You have a genetic disorder, poor lad. Now, sometimes you'll be 18, but otherwise, you're 12. It all depends on the circumstances."

The next day, Jason and his new partner in crime boarded a Greyhound bus for Neverland, whereupon Willie began his career as a pirate.


	8. Partners in Crime

_A/N: Please see Chapter 1  
Warnings: language, sexual situations_

* * *

**June 1972**

Willie's new life was not how he imagined it would be. As Jason explained it to him, he skipped the chocolate milk and drank straight from the bottle, even though it felt like fire in his throat.

"Now, you don't be takin' it personally. It's a fast way to make money. _Easy_ money. It's just good business when you have somethin' people want, and they're willin' to pay ya for it."

"No. Fuck you." Willie glared at him, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

"What's the big deal? It's not as if you're a—stranger to the idea," Jason continued with a knowing look. "I can see it in your eyes." The older man offered him a cigarette, but Willie knocked his hand away and swung a punch to the head. Jason grabbed his arm.

"Listen, tough guy, do ya think I want to ask this? There's no other choice."

"I wanna go home." The boy pulled his arm away.

"Well, isn't that nice but, sadly, it's not on your list of options. You're a long way from home, laddie, and we're flat broke." Willie moved to the far corner of the room and slumped to the floor. "And what makes you think you have a home to go to? Your sainted mother never even looked for you; did ya know that? Relieved she was, so her new family could pack their bags and move far away. You really thought she wants her bastard mistake trailin' after her?" he scoffed. "That would go down just lovely in Scarsdale, I'm sure."

The plausibility of that statement was not lost on Willie as he hurled the nearest object at the older man. "You're fulla shit!"

Jason caught the cup as it flew through the air, his hand-painted shaving mug from Germany, and placed it on the nightstand.

"Alright, mate, let me tell what options you do have. You can go along with my plan, or you can walk out that door right now. Go on, nobody's stoppin' ya, if you want to sleep in an alley and eat out of the rubbish bin. But—you're goin' to need some money, and just how do ya think runaway boys like you earn a bob? Tell me what else you've got to sell." The Irishman shrugged. "Now, you can do it on your own, and good luck to ya, or you can do it with me here to look after ya."

Put that way, it didn't seem he had much of a choice. Willie chugged from the bottle; the burning liquid made his stomach churn and eyes water. "How do I know you're tellin' the truth?"

"Because I'm the one who's taken care of you, good and proper," the Irishman replied with a hint of indignation. "Now it's your turn to take care of me for awhile. The party's over, son; it's payback time."

Jason pulled him up from the floor and held the kid's shoulders in a protective gesture. Willie tried to shrug it off, angry and humiliated, but his mentor held fast.

"Ah now, it's just for a little while. Temporary, ya might say, till we get our big deal goin'—and get back on our feet again. It's not so bad. I'll tell you everythin' you'll need to know." He flashed that grin. "How do you think I earned me keep as a lad? It got me where I am today."

Contrary to Jason's optimistic predictions, Willie's first business venture did not fare well. A large, gruff-looking man with a full beard picked up the young hitchhiker and parked with him behind a billboard. With a leering smile, he fingered the boy's shaggy hair.

"You're a real cutie, aren't you," he cooed. "Just like a little girl."He leaned over and kissed Willie, which made the young man swallow his gum. The man's beard was coarse and scratchy and smelled of a dozen things. He proceeded to the next item on his agenda.

* * *

Jason was not angry but rather disappointed when his partner returned to the motel so early and with less than an adequate day's wages.

Willie took the money from his pocket and placed it slowly on the night stand. Then he grabbed the lamp with every intention of smashing it into the wall. It was bolted to the table. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

"Willie, what is it? What's wrong?" he could hear Jason calling from the bedroom. The kid splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth, thoroughly. He came out and crawled into bed, pulling the cheap motel quilt over his head.

"Are you hurt?" Jason sat next to him and pulled the coverlet down to examine his face. "Let's see the moneymaker." He was relieved to find no marks. "There now, no harm done." Willie rolled over to face the wall, curled up into a ball. The Irishman rubbed his back.

"Don't be discouraged, lad. That was a bit of a rough start, is all. You can try again tomorrow." His partner did not reply. "Tell you what. Let me get somethin' to cheer ya up. What'll it be, hmm?"

There was a long pause.

"A comic book," answered the lump under the blanket.

"Come on, you can do better. You'll never succeed in business without more bargainin' power than that."

"A Cadillac."

Jason laughed. "Let's aim for a happy compromise." He reached under the cover and removed the boy's sneakers. "Don't wear your shoes in bed."

"I want new sneaks; those're fulla holes. And I wanna haircut, a real short one. And a chocolate milkshake. And a comic book."

"Yes, Prince William, whatever you desire. Well, just as soon as we have some cash, that is. I think for tonight I can manage a comic book and a Slurpee from the shop next door."

" . . . Sure, Jason."

* * *

The next day Willie was back out on a street corner, and every day after that. Sometimes he played a runaway kid at the bus station, or a hitchhiking teenager on the highway, or a scrappy orphan earning a meal. For twenty bucks a pop, the blond boy serviced traveling businessmen, pillars of the community, everyday joes, and once, a sad-faced rabbi who just wanted to talk about his problems. His customers were not members of the gay community; they almost always had wives and children at home.

At first Willie spent hours hiding out in washrooms and movie theatres to get away for a while, but soon discovered these locations were their own hotbeds of salacious activity when his clientele followed him there. He could sit in the back row of the cinema all evening and conduct business.

The young man stared at himself in the men's room mirror. Could they tell because he sat alone, or was it the way Jason dressed him? These guys approached him all the time—silently sliding into the seat next to him to place their hands on his thigh. Things like that don't happen to normal people. Willie concluded there must be something wrong with him. _Mea culpa, mea culpa. _

As time passed, he became sullen and dismal, drinking heavily and rarely speaking to anyone. There were no more sympathetic stories and small talk with clients, even though the pretense was proper protocol for these transactions.

The surly hustler began his conversations with what he was willing to do and how much it would cost, followed by "Yes or no. Hurry up." There was absolutely no hugging and no kissing. In fact, he preferred not to be touched more than necessary. Sometimes clients would buy dinner and drinks for the young man, and take him back to their hotel rooms. Those were, no question, more comfortable arrangements, but it usually meant they wanted to chat, and Willie was not interested in what the gentlemen had to say.

The young prostitute was unresponsive and detached during his succession of anonymous 20-minute relationships, for the boy invariably clamped his eyes shut and took his mind to a different place. The customers didn't care if he was enthusiastic or not, so he just did his job and made his money.

When he grew a little bigger, Willie found he could bitch-slap his johns sometimes and get away with it, those pathetic, scaredy-cat closet queens. It helped make up for the other ones who gave him more than he bargained for; he knew not to retaliate against those guys because they might slit his throat. In those instances he just hoped to still get paid, tried to protect his moneymaker (face) and let Jason patch him up afterwards.

Willie would roll johns whenever possible; that is, take off before delivering the goods, or lift their wallets and wristwatches. He started work just before evening rush hour and usually wrapped up at 3 or 4 in the morning, having breakfast or a burger at an all-night diner. Then, he'd take a bottle to bed and sleep away most of the day. Once a month, Jason hauled him to a backstreet doctor who gave the boy a shot of penicillin to ward off occupational diseases.

There were no days off. In fact, business boomed during the holidays. Then Willie strolled through shopping centers and crowded streets employing his recently acquired skills as a pickpocket. Often he and Jason worked as a team, relieving happy, ignorant families of their Christmas savings. Who cared if Santa couldn't visit their houses that year? Jason felt no remorse about it, so Willie didn't either.

The holiday season was the happiest time of the year for Willie, because he rarely hustled, and it wasn't so lonely when he worked with a partner. The mentor even complimented his nimble fingers. He remarked that, at St Jerome's, instead of berating the boy for substandard academics and singing talent, they should have put a violin in his hands. Willie asked if he could shoplift a violin, but Jason said no.

After New Years, family men went back to work, and so did Willie. One morning in late spring, upon the boy's return to their hotel room, Jason jumped up and pushed him back into the hallway. He was wearing only a robe, and behind him a naked lady with very red hair and very big tits was curled up on his bed. "Fifteen minutes," The Irishman said brusquely and closed the door in his face.

Willie sat on the floor of the hall and smoldered. No wonder they were always broke if Jason was spending all their cash on hookers. _Willie's_ cash, more like it. If that's the way it was going to be, the young man felt he deserved a piece of that pie for himself—but he was uneasy. The idea of intimate contact, with anyone, was not stimulating, it was pretty repulsive; he didn't even like to touch himself anymore. What if he was too messed up in the head now and couldn't perform? The woman would no doubt laugh and treat him with the same contempt the boy imparted to his customers. So what? She was just a whore, it wouldn't matter what she thought. Willie was now 16 years old; this issue had to be resolved.

The next day he spotted a girl his age, no, definitely younger, working the other side of the freeway. She had straw colored hair, wide blue eyes and freckles. The little hooker wore short shorts and a blouse tied up at the midriff. There were pinpricks and bruises running up the insides of both arms. Willie jumped over the median strip barricade to introduce himself.

"Get away." She looked past him to the horizon of highway, sticking out her thumb. "I can't be talkin' to you."

"Why not?"

"Nobody's gonna stop if you're standin' here."

"But I'm a john, look." He pulled a stash of twenty dollar bills from his pocket.

The streetwalker was apprehensive. "I don't think Clifford would like it."

"Who's that?"

"He's my boyfriend."

"What's the dif'rence? I'm payin', ain't I? Let's go in those woods."

The girl looked about hesitantly before capitulating. "Okay, Hurry up."

Willie wished he had a blanket for there was not a comfortable inch in that cluster of trees. Still, it needed to be done, and afterwards the new man was relieved and far too pleased with himself to solicit any more work that day. He headed home to discover his pockets were empty.

Jason was furious. He smacked Willie across the room, shouting, "You don't be pickin' up trash off the street! Do you want to get the clap? And then you let that bitch rob you! Have you lost your mind?"

"Trash off the street. Like me."

"That's different." Jason regained his composure. "Now, don't be doin' that again. When you're in need of some comfort, old Jason will take care of you and get you a nice, clean, _honest _lady."

"Those whores you bring back here look old."

"Oh no, lad, that's skill and experience. You'll see."

The next time Willie saw that young prostitute, she had a black eye to match his. _Good. She deserved it_, he thought. They avoided each other's glance and did not speak.

The partners never stayed in one place for long. Jason would connive schemes which, successful or not, often required a _hasty exit_. Sometimes they lived high, but the money always ran out because Jason threw it away. He made friends, bought drinks for the house, and told tall tales of his seafaring days, frequently promising he would take Willie to Hong Kong where they had the most talented young ladies in the world.

Willie would sit in the background and get plastered, affecting a punk smirk, wishing resentfully that he had that pocket full of cash and such a free and easy manner. But the kid had long since forgotten how to make friends, or even hold a polite conversation. He let his fists do the talking.

Jason indulged the boy, far more than he should have, allowing him to smoke and drink as much as he wanted and eat whatever he liked. He even paid extra to book motel rooms with televisions.

And, although the kid had a short fuse and was constantly getting pulled away from brawls, the Irishman rarely lost his temper. Well once, when his junior partner ran up a $600 debt with a bookie because he always bet on the Dodgers, no matter what the odds were. Jason laid into him with a belt, but Willie just laughed, wriggled out of his grasp and ran out the door. The elder was left with the empty jacket in his hand.

After spending a chilly night outdoors, Willie went back the next day.

But Jason was gone. He had checked out and left no message. The kid panicked, thinking that, not only had he lost all his stuff, but now that bookie would come after him; he'd probably kill Willie and throw him from a moving vehicle, like in the movies. He ran to the diner, the convenience store, the bus station, the train station—there was no sign of his partner.

Frightened and defeated, he returned to the motel, sat on the front curb and buried his face in his hands. The sound of a car horn brought Willie's head up. There was Jason behind the wheel of a beat-up old Ford.

"Jason! I'm glad to see ya. Where'd ya get the car?"

"Stop muckin' about; get in." Willie hopped into the passenger seat and the Irishman sped off. "Thanks to you, we're in need of a _particularly_ hasty exit, and I thought our hard-earned wages were better spent on this fine limousine that squanderin' it by payin' off a criminal."

"Will you teach me how to drive?"

"Sure, you already have your license, and you don't think I'm goin' to do all the work." Willie turned on the radio. Jason turned it off. "I'm not through talkin' to you. Don't you ever put us in a compromising position like that. You are nothin' but trouble, boy."

"I won't ever gamble again, except on—" The man shot a look at him. "I mean, not even on the Dodgers." Jason snorted. "I swear. On a stack of bibles."

The partners in crime criss-crossed the country. They stuck to the big cities where the kid turned tricks and picked pockets while elder handled the money and pulled scams. Eventually they landed back in Brooklyn, from whence their journey had begun.

* * *

**April 1974**

Jason and Willie sat in a booth at the Last Exit Bar enjoying a lunchtime respite of beef stew and beer.

"Jason. Can you help out an old friend?"

They looked up to see a trembling man standing at the table. He would have resembled Willie at one time, but taller. The fair-haired stranger was deathly thin with pale skin, his sunken blue eyes surrounded by dark shadows.

"Wait here," Jason whispered to his companion and bounded out of the booth. "Sean, my man! How is life treatin' ya?" Let me buy you a drink." He clapped an arm around the swaying man's shoulder and guided him to the bar.

Willie watched them across the room. The guy was weird; he looked kind of young but old at the same time. The two spoke briefly as Jason pulled out his wallet and placed some bills in his quivering hand, but they dropped to the floor. The Irishman bent to retrieve the money, secured it in the man's coat pocket and escorted him to the door. He returned to the booth and resumed his lunch as if nothing had happened.

"Jason?" The boy seemed disturbed.

"Never mind, it's nothin' to you."

"But who was that?

"Just a bum. He's a junkie. Now, don't _you_ ever do that stuff."

"But how do you know him?"

Jason hesitated for a moment, then replied casually. "He used to be me partner."

The two finished their meal in silence.

* * *

After lunch, Willie hopped a bus to the old neighborhood, wondering if it had very much changed. At first the young man wasn't sure if he had gotten off at the right stop. His apartment building had been torn down and replaced with a strip mall which extended into what used to be the vacant lot. The row houses, of which he used to be so jealous, looked dilapidated and sad, but the playground had a new modern fence, and the Capri Garden Lounge was now a Korean church.

Willie sat on the park bench, the one on which he had camped out the night he had decided to run away. The young hustler often wondered how different his life would have been if he had gone home for supper that night. Did Lyddie ever think about him, even a little, or was he part of that embarrassing chapter of her life that she put out with Monday's trash?

It didn't matter, of course; he could never look her in the face again. Not now. Jason often reminded the boy that his supposed family had moved on without him. He didn't know his mother's address anymore or even her new last name.

_Forget about it_, Willie thought bitterly. _Her life got all better as soon as she dumped me. She's happy now with Big Dick and her real son._

He watched several small children digging in a sandbox. Little Dick was probably in kindergarten by now. One of them could be him, but not likely, he decided. They moved up in the world—most probably to a better neighborhood.

A middle aged man sat next to Willie and smiled expectantly. The boy rose abruptly and sneered. Christ, in his own neighborhood.

"Fuck off."

He went back to his hotel, popped open a beer and watched one of his favorite movies, _Public Enemy, _on TV. Jimmy Cagney was his favorite actor—a little guy, but tough.


	9. Slightly Soiled

_A/N: please see Chapter 1 and end of story._

* * *

Working the street was a dangerous job. Not all johns were timid little men, afraid of the world finding out about their dark secret—they were easy to handle, as long as they didn't get paranoid. Customers were all ages, shapes and sizes, and often they purported to be just regular guys who had "never done anything like this before." As if Willie cared. But many harbored a combination of shame and anger, and sometimes they would direct that anxiety at the object of their desire.

Willie set out on the evening of what was to be his last in the business, when a policeman stopped his patrol car and told him to get in the back seat. The hustler wasn't sure if he was being arrested, so he sat quietly and was relieved when the officer drove not to the police station but to a secluded spot, a clearing in the woods. Cops were always looking for freebies.

Exiting the vehicle, the officer grabbed his billy stick, yanked Willie from the back seat, cuffed him from behind and threw him facedown across the hood. Pulling Willie back by the hair, the policeman whispered in his ear, "You have the right to remain silent."

* * *

Bleeding and bruised, Willie walked for what seemed an eternity back to the motel room, clutching at his clothing to keep it from falling off. Jason tried not to look shocked when the young man pushed off the doorway and fell into his arms.

"Christ Almighty, look at you, your clothes are all torn."

Willie stumbled into the room and collapsed on his bed. "Ya should see the other guy."

Jason held up Willie's wrist where the skin was rubbed away, but the young man yanked it back. "Don't touch that, it's sore. I just gave a freebie to a kinky cop."

"And he didn't ask very politely, did he?"

Willie put a bloody tooth on the nightstand. "Maybe—it could go back in."

"Sure it can, but it hardly shows at all." Jason cleaned up his damaged goods and tucked him into bed with ice wrapped in their last clean towel. He cleared away the others covered in mud, blood and vomit.

"Slightly Soiled, that's me," Willie mumbled. (3)

He tried to remember why his hair and clothes were damp. The boy closed his eyes as the events of the evening returned to memory.

Willie had woken up on the ground. Something dripped into one eye and the other was swollen shut. The first things that came into focus were a pair of shiny black shoes, flecked with fresh blood. The officer stood over him pouring water from a plastic gallon jug. The boy sputtered and coughed, and curled into a ball when the cop viciously kicked him in the ribs.

"Wake up. I'm not done with you," the man said. "If you pass out again, it'll be gasoline, not water. Understand?" He kicked the youth again. "I asked you a question."

"Y-yessir."

The officer knelt beside Willie and, taking his service revolver from his holster, removed the safety and shoved it in the boy's mouth.

"So you like to suck things. Well, suck on this." Willie tasted the cold metal mixed with blood where the muzzle had knocked a tooth loose. His vision began to dissolve again into something gray and fuzzy.

_Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners  
now, and at the hour of our death . . . _

The cop removed the pistol and whipped it across Willie's face. "I said, stay awake!" He threw the gun to the ground and stood up. "Alright, that's it. You were warned." He fished out his keys and turned away to open the trunk of the patrol car.

Willie again curled into a ball. Stretching his hands as far as he could, he slid his butt and then his legs back through the loop his arms made, bringing the cuffs to the front. Then the boy rolled onto his side, reached out and grabbed the revolver.

The cop was searching inside his vehicle. As he stood upright and closed the trunk, Willie fired.

* * *

When Jason left to get more ice from the bin outside their motel room, the young hustler took the opportunity to pull the blanket over his head for a minute. Playing in his head was the death scene from _Public Enemy_. Cagney staggers into the gutter in the pouring rain, clutching his gunshot wounds: "_I ain't so tough."_

His voice cracked a little as his caretaker dabbed a cut above his swollen eye with a cool washcloth. "I don't wanna do this anymore. I'm never gonna work again."

For once, the Irishman had nothing to say. Willie was afraid of the repercussions, but he had to say it, even if Jason threw him out on the street right now. He could join that other guy, Sean, and the rest of Jason's former partners, living in a cardboard box.

His partner dismissed the boy's comment. "Mustn't think about that tonight. Things will look better in the mornin'. . . well, maybe in a few days."

"You don't understand. That cop—I killed him."

Jason stopped, his hand and washcloth paused in midair. He stared at Willie, grasping him by the shoulders.

"You what? Are you sure he's dead?"

"I shot him five times—in the back. I'm dunno if they all hit him 'cause I couldn't see too good, but he went down—and there was some blood. When I took the keys outta his hand to unlock my cuffs, he didn't move. I hadda do it; he was gonna kill me."

"Did you wipe off your fingerprints?"

"Just the gun. There's probably more all over, I dunno. Jason, I'm scared." Willie didn't like the look on his partner's face. _Every man for himself_, as the Irishman would say. An awkward silence hung in the air.

"Are we splittin' up?" the boy asked quietly.

"I'd like to meet the feller who could break up this team." Jason flashed his famous grin, changing his mood like the flip of a switch. "Sit up, let's get you wrapped." He proceeded to secure an ace bandage around Willie's cracked ribs.

"Jason, why do ya take care a' me?" Willie held his arms up in the air. "I mean, why did ya pick me to be yer partner?"

The Irishman mused. "Well, now that's a good question, because most of the time, you're far more trouble than you're worth. But, ya know, I had a son once, almost your age, and you make me think of him. Liam, his name was."

"What happened? Did he die?"

"The influenza. He was just a wee lad."

Willie doubted that the story was true; Jason didn't know blarney from bullshit. He wondered if the Irishman would have sent his own son to work the streets, but instead broached a new topic. "So . . . are ya married?"

"Of that I'm not sure. Siobhan was in with a dicey crowd. They liked to firebomb government buildings. She knew how to plant explosives or would sometimes just throw a flamin' bottle through a window. Last I heard she was in prison, but by now she may be dead. Who knows?"

Jason adjusted the boy's pillow as he lay down and tucked in the blanket. "Tell you what. I'll look after you now, and you can tend me in me dotage, like a good son."

Willie smiled at the thought of himself, fat and gray, pushing his skeletal, withered partner in a wheelchair they rammed into pedestrians in order to pick their pockets. He had never thought about the future before, and maybe someday he would, but just then he had a pounding headache—and more pressing problems.

"What are we gonna do now, Jason? How are we gonna get money?"

"Sounds like it's time for a hasty exit. Just as well, you're gettin' long in the tooth for this line of work, anyway."

The room started to spin as Willie suppressed a wave of nausea and the need to pass out again.

"What does that mean, like all used up?" Jason ignored the question and poured them each a drink.

"Time for a new adventure! I do believe I'm missin' the smell of salt air." He grinned. "How would you like to go on an ocean voyage and see the world?"

Willie's eyes opened. "Do ya mean it?"

"Now, haven't I always been straight with you? And, m'boy, wait 'til we get to Hong Kong. They have the most talented ladies in the world." They clinked glasses.

"That sounds real nice," he mumbled drowsily.

Jason sang a soft lullaby about drunken sailors until Willie fell asleep.

* * *

Willie sat at the Capri Garden Lounge bar waiting for Jason to come and fetch him. They were going to sail to Hong Kong. The tap room was dark and run down, lit only by a row of small votive chapel candles that lined the bar. The place was deserted except for his friend Charlie, who sat on the stool next to him.

"Hey, Charlie, I missed you. I'm gonna do like you said. I'm gonna travel all over and see the world."

He tugged on the old man's sleeve to get his attention, but his decayed arm came off in Willie's hand. The boy placed it carefully on the bar and studied the corpse. His childhood friend was gray and rotting, but still clutched his beer mug and stared with hollow eyes at the dark television screen on the wall.

Willie noticed that he had a beer too, but it was warm and smelled like—gasoline. He pushed it away as a flaming bottle crashed through the plate glass window; suddenly the lounge was ablaze. The boy raced for the exit and pushed against it with all his might, but it wouldn't budge. Then he saw the sign above the handle: PULL. Willie yanked the heavy wooden door open with a bang and in the doorway, silhouetted by moonlight, was the police officer with shiny black shoes. Flames illuminated his face as the cop entered the bar, pushing Willie ahead of him.

"You didn't think you were going to get away that easy, did you?" He advanced on the boy, who backed into the bar. Charlie took no notice of the interaction.

"You can't be here. You're dead. I shot you."

The policeman flashed a wide grin and laughed. "You got it all wrong, son. I'm the one who shot you, right before I turned you into a crispy critter. You're lying in the hospital ICU right now, knocking at death's door."

Willie shook his head in confusion. "No no no. . ."

"See for yourself." The cop grabbed him and spun the boy around to see their reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

The edges of Willie's clothes were reduced to cinders and stained with blood. His hair was burnt away, and his face and body were covered with black charred skin, peeling away to reveal raw pink flesh and bone beneath. The officer had his arm around the boy, tightly gripping his shoulders as he smiled into the mirror.

"Call me Dad," the cop whispered in his ear as the flames rose around them.

* * *

Willie sprung up in bed with a yell; the sudden harsh movement sent a shot of pain to his battered ribcage. Jason walked over to his bedside and settled him back under the covers, feeling the boy's forehead.

"We'll have no more bad dreams now."

Embarrassed by his outburst, Willie struggled to find a comfortable position. "It's okay, lemme alone." But he was still trembling.

Alright, tough guy, I'm goin' to get you some aspirin. Try not to do any more damage till get back."

Nothing of the shooting was mentioned in the newspapers but, from a knowledgeable source on the inside, Jason learned that the offending officer was in a coma; he had a 40 percent chance of survival and a 100 percent chance of being paralyzed. The police department felt the incident did not reflect well on the force and, out of consideration for the man's distraught wife, suppressed all publicity. If the officer recovered, there would be an internal investigation, but at present, there were no suspects.

Jason tried to keep the boy in bed, but Willie would not play the invalid and, within a few days, he was up and out the door. First stop was a pawn shop where he purchased a wicked looking switchblade that went straight into the pocket of his new (well, second hand) windbreaker.

_The next guy who fucks with me will definitely be dead. _

On the way to the ship, Willie limped happily alongside his partner as the Irishman sang his favorite song:

_There was a dusky Eurasian maid,  
In old Karachi she plied her trade,  
And in Calcutta and in Madras  
And by special request up the Khyber Pass_

_Black Velvet was full of joy_  
_for every Dublin sailor boy_  
_She guaranteed to please_  
_and the most that it cost you was five rupees._

_There was a sailor boy, fully grown,  
who, until then, had held his own,  
She took the sailor boy by the hand  
and showed him the way to the promised land. _(4)

* * *

**Footnotes:**

(3) Slightly Soiled: a character from _Peter Pan_ by J.M. Barrie. Slightly often provides comic relief. He is described as the most conceited of the boys, because he believes that he, unlike the others, remembers what life was like before he was "lost." However, most of his "memories" are either based on misunderstandings or pure fabrications: one example is that he claims to know what his last name is— his pinafore had the words "Slightly Soiled" written on the tag. – Source: Wikipedia

(4) Sung to the tune of _Greensleeves._

* * *

_End of Part 1._

_I hope you enjoyed this story and will continue on to read Part II: Globetrotters. It is currently getting a minor makeover and will be posted shortly. As always, your comments are welcome and appreciated. _


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